Key by Key
by OMG-Orlaith
Summary: Sherlock decides that it would be a good idea to learn piano, which confuses John until he realizes the real reason Sherlock began. Just a quick, fluffy Johnlock fic.


"It's stupid." I could hear Sherlock growl under his breath. "Unnecessary."

I chuckle at his exasperation. "It was your idea, you know. Don't take it out on the piano." Clearly not listening, Sherlock brings his fists down on the keys.

"You seemed to enjoy it, John, so I thought it might be fun. Relaxing, even. But it takes too long, it's more stress than my job and it sounds terrible even when I do it right."

Rolling my eyes, I bring the cover over the piano in front of us and inform him that we'd probably had enough practise today. He sighs with relief.

"Finally. And I thought yesterday's arpeggios were dull. That, John, was the closest thing to torture I've experienced in my life."

I laugh at his expression; it was twisted in some sort of combination of distress and confusion.

"I just don't see how playing notes over and over again can appeal to anybody..."

His rant continues for a while, but I just listen diligently. He'd been relatively patient for the past few days; while I taught him, he'd attempt to repeat the tune I played without complaining. After our lessons, I'd leave the apartment for a few hours. The sounds of gunshots were wreaking havoc on my hearing. This is all part of his giving up cigarettes: finding methods to forget his cravings. Non-violent methods. Piano was the first idea that sprang to his mind, as he'd heard me playing.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" He looks up, still in an angry daze from his tirade against the piano.

I lower my voice, and speak gently. I am in no mood to aggravate Sherlock on one of his bad days; it would be safer to walk into Scotland Yard with a bomb strapped to my jacket.

"What is the real reason you started piano?"

My questions catches him off-guard, he takes a moment to consider the question.  
"What do you mean?" He replies a bit too shakily.

"You tell everyone that it's because you see how much I enjoy it, but you never see me play. You only hear it from your bedroom, and you never even asked about it. I thought you told me the only instrument that appealed to you was the violin?..."

He crosses his arms and watches me for a moment. I feel a bit self-conscious, and I check behind me to see if the object of his fascination is that tray of human teeth from the morgue I had placed on the table. But he is staring at me with a look of genuine curiosity.

"John...do you honestly think I didn't see how much joy it brought you? The look on your face after you played, the way you never get frustrated no matter how long it takes you? I came to the conclusion that nothing that can make you so happy can be that bad." The corners of his mouth flicker upwards as I raise my eyebrows. "Even piano. I get a bit aggravated, granted..." He grins again. "But you teach me well, John." There are a few moments of silence until we are interrupted by Anderson.

"Lestrade's outside, the two of you are needed. And Sherlock," he says with a pained expression. "We'd all appreciate if you gave the piano a break. There's only so many times your neighbours can tolerate Bach being butchered on a piano by a raving psycho...sociopath." He corrected himself after a glance from Sherlock.  
"As much as I appreciate your review, Anderson, I'm afraid John and I will have to continue our lessons." As he hovered at the door, Sherlock spun around one last time to face Anderson.

"And as it is the festive season, perhaps soon I'll be able to spare you a CD?"

_Later that evening_

As I jog up the steps, the music grows louder. _Für Elise,_I think. As I open the flat door, my suspicions are confirmed. Sherlock is at the piano. Though not as I pictured him. He is sitting on the little leather stool that was used for the piano, and he's wearing his usual suit. But he is also covered in what looks like a mixture of blood, tar, and glittery paint.

"What?..."

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

"It's nothing, John. Case got a bit complicated, but I got it. Lestrade was happy to see the end of that one, let me tell you that."

"But...why are you playing? You said you hated it."

Without facing me, he mumbles his explanation.

"I found this piece in a folder labelled 'Favourite pieces.' It was the easiest one, and it was placed at the front and it's very worn, clearly indicating that it is your favourite."

"You were looking through my stuff again?"

He doesn't even acknowledge my accusation. He is focusing on the piano, his brow furrowed in concentration as he plays the notes, correctly this time. I listen for a while, marvelling at the beauty of it. He'd obviously been practising for a long time, probably days. Most likely he practised when I was out shopping, working...but why? This amount of effort for this one piece. It makes no sense. But I let senselessness take over, and I stop trying to explain Sherlock. He is Sherlock, that's the only way you can describe him. Mycroft has known him all his life, and he was every bit as lost as the rest of us. No one can explain it, but why do we need to? It will be better for both of us if I just stop trying to figure him out.

He plays the last few notes softer than I thought he possibly could, and sits silently for a few moments. He stares at the piece, then turns slowly around to face me.

"Not good?" He whispers.

I shake my head slowly. I sit up, walk over to him and press my lips to his, a sudden passion building up in my chest. It hurts. In a good way.

We stay that way for a few moments, softly, gently kissing each other, as if we were afraid something would go wrong. Nothing did.

After that, the nights, the days, time in general, just flies by. Being with Sherlock, holding Sherlock. Kissing Sherlock. We just spend the hours finally being able to be with each other.


End file.
